Foreward from Nine:

My first experiment with writing (“Rain’s Promise”) seemed to be pretty well-recieved, so I’m at it again! However, this time there’s a warning! This story, unlike Mythos itself, is quite serious and a little bit dark. Maybe not dark to some of you, but it’s really dark for me — because I’m a chicken-wuss. It also may not be readily apparent how it ties into Mythos until the end. I hope you enjoy it!

“Never Again”

July 4th, 1844
1:43 AM
Vermilionville, Lousiana

In the midst of chaos, Geraldine walked purposefully forward. Voices were crying out all around her, but most of them were bellows of furious rage as her friends and family charged toward their oppressors. There were very few gunshots fired before her people overwhelmed their vastly outnumbered enemies. Somewhere in her mind came the fleeting worry that she’d lost someone she’d loved — but they all fought to gain so much more. 

She gripped a sickle tightly in her fist as she calmly moved through the fray, making her way directly toward the plantation house itself. The overseers paid her no mind as they were quickly overtaken by the others. When Geraldine reached the doors of the estate, she didn’t bother to check if they were locked; instead, one solid kick granted her entry into the master’s foyer. One house servant, clutching a dressing gown about herself, had come to see the commotion going on outside. A single withering gaze sent her rushing off. 

Ascending the stairs, Geraldine heard some of the others storming into the house behind her. A few even rushed past her as she steadily moved upward. They had their orders: Allow the children their escape, but leave Bennington to Geraldine. She could hear the startled cries of the young ones as they were hastily, but gently, evacuated from their residence. As the youths were rushed past her, she found her way to the master bedroom. 

With another savage kick, the bedroom door crashed out of its frame. Bennington was waiting inside, a revolver loaded and ready for any insurgents. Geraldine’s explosive entrance, however, caught the man off guard. He squeezed the trigger, but the shot went far to the left. He didn’t get another chance to fire.

Quite different from the slow, deliberate movements she’d been taking thus far, Geraldine rushed ahead with an adrenaline-fueled burst of speed. Her right hand grabbed to keep the gun barrel pointed away from her, while her left swept in a low slash with her sickle. Bennington cried out in pain as his leg was mauled, crumpling to the ground before Geraldine. He released his weapon as he fell, which she all too happily took into her own hands. 

From his weakened position, Bennington attempted to lunge forward, but Geraldine easily deflected him with her heel planted firmly into his chest. Her kick rolled him onto his back, and a stomp downard into his shoulder was met with a sickening crunching sound. The man’s eyes burned with fury as he snarled up at her, tears of rage and pain streaming down his cheeks.

“You bi–”

His words were cut short as Geraldine jammed the muzzle of the revolver against his thigh and fired, disabling the leg that she hadn’t slashed open. Her gaze remained icy, her face expressionless, and she waited for Bennington to cease his tortured screams before she finally spoke. 

“We ain’t your property, anymore,” she stated simply, keeping her foot upon his shattered shoulder.

Bennington was sweating, bleeding, and breathing raggedly through clenched teeth. He stared up at Geraldine with a mixture of panic, pain, and hatred. She stood over him, keeping him pinned beneath her bare foot, firearm in one hand, the bloodied sickle in the other. 

“Where do you think you can even go from here, girl? You can’t live without me.”

Geraldine raised an eyebrow as she regarded the wounded man beneath her, then shook her head. “Maybe you’re right. But I sure as hell wouldn’t call this livin’, either.” 

As countless images of the abuses she’d suffered flashed vividly through her mind, she smashed her foot down again into Bennington’s useless shoulder, granting her another agonized wail. He drew in a breath that sounded more like a sob, and she finally removed her foot from his body. 

“I’m done with you,” she said at last, the anger finally beginning to creep into her voice.

She turned away and strode from the room before Bennington could see any traces of emotion on her face. The incapacitated man hurled insults and threats as she left his mangled body on the floor, but they only served to help harden her features back into the visage of determination she’d worn all night. Even as she reached the foyer, she could still hear Bennington’s screams from above. 

Once she stepped out onto the veranda, she offered out the revolver to one of her comrades so he could arm himself. Some of the others went about closing and barring the doors to the plantation house, while another crew set about the task of lighting it ablaze. By the time the entire structure was engulfed in flames, Geraldine was watching from the edge of the property. Her eyes were unfocused, only vaguely taking in the sight of the raging fire. Their uprising was successful, but she’d no plans beyond that. Even if it meant her end, she at least knew that she would die free from belonging to anybody. 

A low whistle came from behind her, where she was certain nobody was standing before. She whirled quickly, her sickle raised, expecting one of the overseers to have escaped and come upon her. 

Instead, in the orange light of the inferno that was once the Bennington Plantation, she saw a tall, lanky man strolling casually toward her. He was dressed richly — if oddly — in a long, black velvet tailcoat, and a top hat cocked upon his head. He was grinning widely at Geraldine, his teeth bright white in contrast to his dark skin. 

A few yards behind him, a woman was leaning against a tree. Geraldine wouldn’t have noticed her had she not been lighting a cigarette as she watched the man with amusement. She looked far different from her companion, with fair skin and bright crimson hair falling in curls around her shoulders. 

“My, my, my,” the gentleman said as he approached, heedless of Geraldine’s raised makeshift weapon, “you surely did bring the party, cherie!”

Geraldine narrowed her eyes at the jovial man, but held her sickle firmly. His demeanor and implacable accent had taken her by surprise — enough to let him stride up to her. She could smell rum and tobacco wafting off him, as well as some other scent she couldn’t quite place at the time.

“Who are you?” she finally asked.

For some reason, this caused the redhead to throw back her head in raucous laughter, to which the strange man just snickered along. “Well, I’m not the important one right now, am I? Watchin’ what you did here, I think we should be talkin’ about you, an’ where you’re gonna go after this.”

As Geraldine remained silent, the man raised both eyebrows. “Ah, I see… then we surely got a lot to talk about. What’s your name, cherie?”

After a moment’s hesitation, she simply answered: “Geraldine.” 

The man shook his head and snapped his fingers as if he were hearing some tune on the wind. “Naw, naw, naw… that was your name, surely. But you ain’t her anymore, are ya? What’s your name now?”

She lowered her sickle as the words sunk in. She knew she was no longer the woman she was hours ago — she couldn’t be. After glancing once more at the burning plantation, she turned her full attention to the man. She could have sworn his eyes flashed with a violet light for a moment, though at the time she dismissed it as a trick of the light and her own exhaustion. Deliberating silently to herself, she at last gave her reply.

“Sylvia.”